


Changeling

by avaalons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaalons/pseuds/avaalons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Same servant. Different queen.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Day 4 entry for the Game of Ships Roses Are Red, Weddings Are Too event over on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changeling

Even before his teeth sink into her soft, yielding flesh he can feel the inevitable argument building, but he just can’t help himself. He’s never been one for following the rules, after all. Almost instantly, he can feel her hands pushing uselessly at his chest and her limbs writhing under him, trying in vain to gain freedom from the weight of his body over hers.  
  
‘Jaime, what are you – Jaime, stop it. Now. Jaime. Get off me.’  
  
He rolls away after a beat, slipping out of her easily as he goes. He presses his face into the furs that pillow his head so that he doesn’t have to look at her, so that she doesn’t see the frustration of incomplete desire in his features. She would only tell him it was his own fault, what he deserved.  
  
She’s immediately across the chamber, naked as her name-day, peering into the looking glass and pawing at her neck where the skin is already blossoming bright and luridly pink. Purple, even, under the shafts of icy moonlight that fall through the window. It will definitely bruise, and Jaime is glad of it.  
  
The moon tinges the rest of her pale skin with blue and she looks ghostly. Dead. But Sansa turns to look at him over her shoulder with the fire of anger flashing in her eyes.  
  
‘Stop trying to mark me. I’m not yours, Jaime.’  
  
 _Nobody ever is_ , he thinks, but makes no effort to lift his face from the furs. He wants to bark out a laugh because he knows full well that _she_ isn’t his, of course, but what Sansa doesn’t understand is that when they’re together and cloaked in darkness except for the meagre light of one solitary candle, he finds it far too easy to convince himself that what is auburn is actually blonde. So really, he’s not trying to mark _Sansa_ at all.  
  
‘Consider it a token of my affection, my lady,’ he lifts himself up to answer her, balancing his weight on his forearms. The light, teasing tone he told himself he was aiming for sounds rough and mocking when the words leave his lips. Unsurprisingly, she responds with narrowed eyes and a new set in her face that tells him she is out to hurt. She looks less like herself with her features so distorted, and Jaime can feel his hardness straining against the mattress under him.  
  
‘ _She_ would never stand for you marking her.’  
  
Cersei and his own ineffectuality, all wrapped up in one neat little comment. _Well played._  
  
‘You’re not a child, Sansa, so stop acting as such,’ he says, although he knows it’s a futile effort. He holds no authority here. Same servant, different queen.  
  
(He spends all the energy he has reminding himself of that fact during the day and there’s nothing left for the night).  
  
‘Is that what you tell yourself when you’re fucking me?’ she bites back, almost spitting the words out, ‘When you’re pulling on my hair and marking my skin?’  
  
She stalks back towards him, out of the blue moonlight and into the warm glow of the candle, and Jaime barely even registers the shift of red to gold. It’s as easy as falling.  
  
He pulls her under him again, mouthing mercilessly at her breasts and hips and thighs in quick succession.  
  
 _No, my lady. What I tell myself is much, much worse._


End file.
